


Justin Verlander: Size Queen

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Crack, Detroit Tigers, M/M, Out of Character, Porn Logic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin doesn’t like to consider himself a size queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Justin Verlander: Size Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://alowishus812.livejournal.com/203860.html?style=mine&thread=1302100#t1302100) at the [Anonymous Baseball Kink Meme](http://alowishus812.livejournal.com/203860.html?style=mine). This is more crack than kink, I think. And probably not what the prompter had in mind. Sorry. Ridiculously enough, this is my only fill for this round of the kink meme.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Justin doesn’t like to consider himself a size queen. He always says “it’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion on the ocean,” or however that idiotic phrase goes but, deep down inside, there’s nothing he loves more than getting his ass pounded by a huge dick. Maybe that makes him a slut for cock, but it certainly doesn’t make him a goddamn size queen.

“Dude, it kind of does.”

Justin rolls onto his back and shoots death lasers at Zumaya with his eyes. “It fucking does _not_.”

Zumaya smacks him in the face with a strip of condoms. “It fucking does!” he bellows, grinning, chipmunk cheeks dimpling. “You must think pretty highly o’ my dick, eh?”

“If you don’t get a fucking move on it, I’m gonna be thinking pretty highly of someone else’s dick in a couple minutes,” Justin snarks, kicking his feet impatiently on the mattress. Why it takes Zumaya so fucking long to put on a condom, Justin doesn’t even know. He kind of thinks he just does it to be annoying.

“Alright, alright,” Zumaya says, discarding a crinkled condom wrapper. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He gives his-- rather impressive, Justin has to grudgingly admit-- dick a few perfunctory strokes before crawling between Justin’s thighs. Zumaya grips him by the hip. “You know,” he says, leaving the thought dangling.

“What?” Justin asks. Might as well add frustrated on top of impatient.

Zumaya slips his hand from Justin’s hip to guide himself in. “Inge’s bigger’n me.”

“Oh?” Justin can’t fight the niggling tug at the back of his mind.

-

Inge frowns and puts his hands on his hips. “Can’t believe you’re even bringin’ this up in the clubhouse.”

“It’s for my own personal edification, Brandon, _please_ ,” Justin begs, knowing he sounds whiny and not much caring.

“I don’t care if it’s for your own personal education-- ”

Justin cuts him off. “Edification.”

“Education, edification, _edumacation_ , whatever. I ain’t doin’ it.” Inge turns his back on Justin and grabs his third baseman’s glove and his Glovolium off the top shelf in his locker.

“ _Brandon_ ,” Justin whines.

Inge turns and glares at him over his shoulder. “If I say yes, you gonna leave me alone an’ never speak of this again?”

“Yes! I promise!” Justin nods eagerly.

“Alright then,” Inge says, “if only to shut you up.”

-

Justin’s on his back with his legs in the air, gripping handfuls of the mattress tightly. Zumaya wasn’t lying when he said Inge was the biggest he’d seen. A rumor’d circulated a few years back that Farnsworth was the biggest all-time, but he isn’t on the team anymore. Inge is it.

Inge isn’t gentle like Zumaya was. As big as he is, Zumaya treated Justin like he was afraid to break him. “Don’t wanna hurt our chances at the post-season,” Zumaya had said. Zumaya’d refused to do him doggy-style because of the strain it might put on the various body parts that were integral to Justin’s pitching mechanics, namely his arm and shoulder. Justin told him he’d just get a cortisone shot, but Zumaya didn’t find it very funny.

Inge fucks him like if he busts his arm and/or shoulder and sinks the team’s post-season chances, well, that’s his own damn fault. Which it kind of is, but still. He’s squeezing hard on Justin’s thighs and Justin’s excited at the prospect of having Inge’s marks left behind on his body. The bruises’ll tell a story only he-- and Inge-- know, and he rather likes having that kind of a secret.

“God, Brandon,” Justin barely manages, his voice high and thready. “Harder.”

“Fuck you,” Inge spits, “I can’t _go_ any harder. My knees are only eighty-five per cent.” He gives Justin’s dick a rough tug just because.

Justin shudders violently against Inge and tries not to think too hard about how much he enjoys that. Then Inge angles up his thrusts and hits this spot deep in Justin that makes him curl his toes and arch his back like a fucking cat, and Justin loses all capacity to think or speak. All he can do is feel.

-

Justin drapes himself over the back of Phil Coke’s folding chair. Coke, Zumaya, Bonine and Ni are sitting in a circle around a flimsy-legged table, while Coke shuffles a deck of Hoyt playing cards. “Whatcha doin’?”

Coke doesn’t so much as blink. He just cuts the deck of cards and starts dealing. “What’s it _look_ like we’re doing?”

“Somethin’ borin’, looks like,” Justin complains, breathing down the back of Coke’s neck just to be annoying.

“You’re breathing on me,” Coke says. “And you’re interrupting our poker game.”

“A little birdie told me you’re packing some heat,” Justin says, cringing inwardly at how cheesy that sounds.

Coke raises his head from his cards and turns in his seat to give Justin a _look_. “What is your major malfunction?”

“Big dicks,” Justin says, grinning.

Ni elbows Zumaya in the side and says something in Taiwanese. Zumaya gestures broadly with his hands and Ni nods, casting a knowing glance Justin’s way.

“I’m not indulging your weirdness,” Coke says.

“Aw, come _on_ , Cokie,” Justin wheedles.

Coke glares at him some more. “Inge warned me about you.”

“Inge’s a fuckin’ killjoy,” Justin grumbles loud enough for Inge to overhear. Inge just flicks him off and resumes being weird and Inge-y in front of his locker.

Coke pushes his cards away and nudges Justin away from his chair. “You might as well quit asking because I am _not_ , in no uncertain terms, going to give you what you’re angling for.”

“Oh,” Justin says, trying to sound mysterious and alluring, “you will. You will.”

Coke makes a face. “That was unnecessarily creepy.” He turns his attention back to the poker game.

Justin sighs and slinks off.

Can’t win ’em all.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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